I used to hate the color yellow.

I used to hate the color yellow.

I really did. I used to hate it.

The first time I started to like the color yellow, it was because of her. We had only been out on a few dates, and I didn’t know that she liked yellow. Really, I didn’t think of it one way or another. It was just another color to me. I liked greens, pinks, maybe purples. Pastels. Black. All my clothes were black. They still are.

She wore a yellow dress that day, with white stockings and cute yellow shoes. Her hair was blonde, almost yellow, and she stared up at me with big blue eyes as I tried not to look downwards at her cleavage. I wore a black shirt and black jeans, black shoes. We went to a party together. I met all of her coworkers, and she got too drunk. I didn’t drink, as much as I wanted to, and took care of her for the rest of the night. I had never felt closer to her.

The next time she wore that yellow dress, it wasn’t until two months later. We were on a date, our six month anniversary. We were taking things slow, but tonight was the night. We both knew it was. Just an hour after our expensive dinners, her yellow dress was on the floor, mingling with my black tshirt and black jeans.

I made her moan, so slowly, so carefully, keeping her on the edge until she begged me to end it. I liked it, for the most part.

Another two months later, and she broke my heart. I took it well, but as soon as she hung up the phone, I began to cry. My new girlfriend was vodka, who kept me warm through the winter.

I hated yellow from then on.

It’s been five years, and I met a new girl.

Her hair flows over her shoulders, dark and silky unlike anything I had ever run my hands through before. I can’t pin down how she dresses. Some days she wears black lipstick with heavy makeup and clothes as dark as mine, and other times she’s a ray of sunshine and color, wearing tye dye shirts and short shorts that make me feel weak.

She listens to me so intently, as if even my most mundane news or story is the most interesting thing in the world, and she can’t get enough of it. Her voice is like a bell, and I purposely engage her and get her to tell me a story. I can’t get enough of it.

Her lips are pillowy soft. I had never kissed a girl with a lip ring before, and the feel of the cool metal between our warm lips send shivers down my spine.

She asked me what my favorite color was, so I told her. I like green, but black is what looks best on me. I asked her what her favorite color is.

“I like yellow.”

The next day, I bought a yellow bracelet, and I haven’t taken it off since. I can’t believe I used to hate the color yellow.

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